


A.J. Crowley's Therapy Diary

by Gnilnim27



Category: Hannibal (TV), Multi-Fandom, Supernatural, The Dresden Files - Jim Butcher, Vampire Diaries (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Crack, F/M, Fluff, I Don't Even Know, M/M, What Was I Thinking?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-03
Updated: 2013-07-05
Packaged: 2017-12-17 13:58:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,727
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/868346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gnilnim27/pseuds/Gnilnim27
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>THIS IS AN AU where Crowley (SPN thank you) is a slash pairing's therapist.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 10 am-11 am. Dean Winchester and Castiel Novak

**Author's Note:**

> So I was bored and my sis suggested this and I kinda went nuts. I don't know what's happening. I apologise, I know nothing of therapy.

Crowley loves his job. 

 

This is not a lie.

 

There is a huge amount a power that comes with being a therapist, especially a therapist who specializes in couple therapy. The life and deaths of relationships are literally in the power of Crowley’s words; a wry remark here, a pointedly raised eyebrow there, a carefully phrased question (and there are many of those). And with great power comes great money, wealth, beautiful people, confidence, designer clothes… and something about being responsible but Crowley might have misheard that last one.

 

No matter.

 

Point is, Crowley loves his job.

 

\--

 

_10 am-11 am. Dean Winchester and Castiel to-be Winchester._

 

“So, Dean, how have things progressed since last week?”

 

Dean Winchester shifts in the $675 single Hedriech Muller couch and smiles his I-evade-issues-cause-I’m-too-pretty grin. Crowley smiles patiently back and nods. The secret of resembling a good listener is all in The Nod. Too fast and you come off as over-compensating, too slow equals being judgemental. Over the years Crowley has mastered the art of tipping his head at just the right angle to look into his patient’s eyes and hopefully look like he’s staring into the depths of their soul and not thinking of what to eat for lunch. 

 

“He’s still having nightmares,” Castiel, Dean’s partner replies somberly. Dean’s jaw tightens. 

 

“Naturally. Dean has just returned from Iraq. These things take time to fade, years even. That was not what I was talking about,” Crowley says, flipping over to a clean page on his notebook. “How’s the job search?” he asks, addressing Dean. 

 

“In progress,” Dean says grumpily. 

 

Crowley thoughtfully doodles a rabid looking mouse. “Dean, as it is, procrastination will only demotivate you.” He looks up. “Let me be blunt. Your perception of self-worth is terrible. We’re not talking about low self-esteem here. We’re talking tiny, tiny…” Pause. “Tiny. Microbe size.”

 

“I know,” Dean sighs. “I try… but I just. I’m not…”

 

“What about working at Bobby’s for a while?” Castiel asks.

 

“I don’t want to feel like he owes me. Or I owe him.” 

 

“It’ll be temporary. And it’ll give you something to do,” Castiel replies dryly. 

 

“Cas.”

 

Crowley watches this exchange and doodles another mouse. Castile turns abruptly away from Dean and says to Crowley, “Sam’s getting married.”

 

“Well, congratulations are in order then. Except, of course, you wouldn’t be bringing this up unless….”

 

“Dean can’t handle it.”

 

Dean gapes and scowls. “No,” he protests loudly. “I handle just find. I’m all for Sam getting married.”

 

“He has abandonment issues as I’m sure you are well aware,” Castiel continues.

 

Dean rolls his eyes. “Cas, so help me God, if you—“

 

“Well, one of us has to talk,” Castiel says sharply. “Since you won’t.” They lapse into silence and respectively turn to look at opposite walls. Crowley had strategically placed a soothing painting by Waterhouse on one wall and a John Pollock on the other. Dean got the Pollock.

 

“Dean, anything you would like to say about Castiel?” Crowley prods.

 

Dean turns back at the man by his side and Castiel turns to look challengingly at him. They stare at each other aas Dean’s angry gaze softens. “No,” Dean says quietly, never breaking eye-contact “I—well, Cas is… Cas, y’know.”

 

“Dean….”

 

Dean smiles brokenly. “He’s always awesome.”

 

“You’re… awesome too,” Castiel murmurs as he brushed fingers down the side of Dean’s face.

 

Crowley could wipe away an imaginary tear. He waits ten seconds for them to finish gazing lovingly into each other’s eyes before clearing his throat. Dean gives him a frown which says ‘You are a rude piece of shit and I don’t even know why I’m here’. Whatever. Crowley is so immune to Dean’s angst ridden face. He takes a deliberate look at his watch.

 

“Gentlemen, I’m afraid this is all the time we have. Before you go,” he snaps the notebook shut. “Homework. Have sex,” he tells Dean and Castiel’s incredulous faces. “Every day of this week. I don’t care if you are dead tired,” he tells Castiel. “Or not in the mood.” He looks at Dean. “Please, I will know.”

 

“No you won’t,” Dean snarls. He makes a big show of checking Crowley’s credentials, all hanging on the wall behind him. “Are you sure you’re sane?”

 

Castiel very seriously says, “We will do as you advise.”

 

Dean’s eyes go big. “Seriously? Are you serious?”

 

Castiel nods. 

 

As they walk out of the office, Crowley can hear Dean muttering. “I should have known he was loony when Gabriel recommended this guy. I mean, Gabriel, Cas—.”

 

Crowley drinks some scotch and settles down for the next round of wry remarks, pointedly raised eyebrows and carefully phrased questions (and there are many of those).


	2. 11 am - 11.13 am (3 years ago) Crazy Nick

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lucifer gets some therapy

Before Crowley decided to specialize in couple’s therapy, he did just-therapy. Which was alright and fun for a bit and not all that difficult. Like doing laundry or watering plants. 

 

Routine.

 

But that was before he met Nick. 

 

It was lunchtime when Nick came in. Crowley remembers this because afterwards he had to treat himself to a large steak, two scoops of ice cream and half a bottle of something desperately strong, so strong that it shall not be named. 

 

And now every time when Crowley was sitting by himself, a wave of melancholia would sweep over him like a particular nasty bout of influenza accompanied by the first words Nick ever uttered. Or when driving home on a dark rainy night, Nick’s words rang in his ears like a persistent and irritating ad jingle. Or when he couldn’t sleep then Nick’s words floated around his skull like one of those invasive online porn ads. 

 

It was their first and last meeting and it begin ominously.

 

Crowley had said, “Well, hello, Nick.”

 

And Nick had said, “I’m the Devil.”

 

Crowley said knowingly, “Ahhhhhhhhh. Have a sit, mate.”

 

Nick said, “I hear voices.”

 

“Look, Nick, I am sure you are not the devil.”

 

“Don’t call me that.”

 

Crowley pursed his lips and tried again. “Look, Nick, I’m sure you are not Lucifer.” 

 

“Don’t call me Nick,” said Nick.

 

Crowley lifted his hands in the universal sign of peace surrender and exposure, at the same time, subtly swiping his fountain pen with its pointy end from the side table (this particular pen had been filed by Crowley for two hours in case of such an emergency, and therefore extraordinarily pointy). “I understand. Please. Have a seat.”

 

Nick sat. 

 

Crowley took his time considering ways of escaping should the situation escalate, all the while cursing Gabriel for ever recommending he take on this case. “How were you as a child?”

 

“What do you mean?” asked Nick.

 

“I mean, there must have been a time, when you were small—smallish,” Crowley said slowly. “When you were not the devil.”

 

Nick seemed to think about this, a frown on his face. “Yes…,” he said at last, hesitating. 

 

“You are aware you need help. That’s why you are here,” Crowley prompted. 

 

“Yes,” Nick agreed.

 

“So, who were you before you were the devil?”

 

“I was… I only thought I was… human.”

 

“What makes you think you are the devil?” This was getting interesting. 

 

“The voices told me,” Nick said with conviction.

 

“But there was a time when you weren’t the devil. You were a man. You see, you think you are the devil now because the voices told you so. But remember, you were a man before. Now I’m not saying the voices are wrong or that you are bonkers. The point is, you didn’t start off as the devil, you started off as a man. If dog is a dog and suddenly someone tried to tell it is was a cat, would you say it was a cat? Hmm?”

 

Nick’s eyes which were wide as saucers in the beginning were now the size of NASA satellite dishes. “But that means.”

 

“Yes,” said Crowley firmly.

 

“That I’m not….”

 

“Afraid not.”

 

“But I’m also not….”

 

“I suppose if you don’t believe you are human, no amount of argument from this end,” Crowley said, gesturing to himself. “Will convince you.”

 

Nick leapt to his feet. “Then what am I?”

 

Crowley replied honesty, “I don’t know. My best guess, a special brew of insanity.”

 

“Who am I?” Nick asked the air, space and the universe in general. The universe replied with a profound silence. Crowley looked at the door longingly. There was a rush of air and the sound of feet on plush carpeting, running past.

 

“I DON’T KNOW WHO I AMMMMMMMMMmmmmmmmm.”

 

There a resounding thud from outside the window.

 

There was a gravely dead silence.

 

There was a resounding groan.

 

There was a deadly grave silence.

Most people would have rushed to the window, in horror saying “Oh oh oh oh oh!” and tearing their hair out in large stressful clumps, an act which they would very much regret later. Most people would not be in the frame of mind to realize that their office was on the second storey of the building and any fall would result, at worst, in a broken bone. Unless, Crowley reasoned, that Crazy Nick had managed to dive, in that short span of time, headfirst onto the pavement.

 

“Are you alright?” he called.

 

“I think I broke my arm!” came the reply.

 

“Well, that proves something doesn’t it,” Crowley shouted back and was answered with another groan. Right. He reached for the phone to call the police.

 

\--

 

It wasn’t that Crowley was traumatized. He just had a momentary case of ‘what-ifs’. What if Crazy Nick had decided that leaping at Crowley and choking him was a better option that leaping out of the window? What if Crowley didn’t manage to uncap his pointy fountain pen? What if there would be future Crazy ‘I’m the devil’ Nicks who did not think it was in everyone’s best interest to jump out a window? What if Nick really was the Devil? Wait. No, scratch the last one.

 

So after the steak, two scoops of ice-cream and half a bottle of ––—, Crowley made a decision. No more single crazies.

 

There could not possibly be two people walking in at the same time, proclaiming to be the devil. The possibility was so unlikely as to be impossible. Thus, following this line of reasoning, Crowley felt his momentary existential crisis was just that. Momentary.  
He hadn’t given just-therapy much thought until recently.


End file.
